DreamADream_0404



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    Shane grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer next to him and dipped it into the sauce, turning to face Ilya with his hand cupped underneath it to catch the drips. As he moved around the island, Ilya’s pulse picked up again and his brain smashed together a montage of nights like this from some imagined future. Shane cooking for him in their kitchen, offering his creation up for Ilya’s judgement. Maybe there would be a nice playlist on. Maybe the pasta would be actual pasta, not chickpea. Maybe they’d be cooking for more than just the two of them. Christ.

    Balancing on the cusp of a something new, Ilya boards a flight to Shane's cottage for two weeks.

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    22 Jul 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    There are questions you simply don't ask Ilya Rozanov on live television.

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    21 Jul 2026

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    There was nothing standard about Shane and Ilya's relationship, so it really shouldn't have been so surprising that they had their first date over a decade after meeting each other.

    It also shouldn't be surprising that it took roughly five minutes before it turned into a competition.

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    21 Jul 2026

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    Shane Hollander is going to murder his agent.

    And he means that literally. Because his agent is the reason he’s currently wearing a hot mic during Hockey Night in Canada. Against the Ottawa Centaurs. Against Ilya.

    Ilya, who has no filter. Ilya, who thinks workplace professionalism is a hilarious suggestion for other people. Ilya, who has spent a decade perfecting the art of saying absolutely unhinged things to Shane on the ice, safe in the knowledge that nobody can hear him.

    Ilya, who definitely doesn’t know about the microphone.

    What follows is sixty minutes of Shane’s life flashing before his eyes while his secret boyfriend enthusiastically discusses their sex life, their broken furniture, and exactly what he wants to do to Shane after the game — all broadcast to millions of viewers.

    The problem? Shane can’t get a word in edgewise to warn him.

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    19 Jul 2026

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    Ilya opened one of his messages.

    Have you seen the news?
    Ilya, call me. Now.
    Please tell me you already fucking know.
    Jesus Christ, man.

    That was it. No context. No explanation. Just panic wrapped in vague bullshit.

    His jaw locked. “Are you fucking serious right now,” he muttered, thumb scrolling harder than necessary. Say it or don’t, you assholes. The half-answers made his skin crawl. It felt like they were all circling something awful, whispering around it, waiting for him to step close enough to get hit.

    His chest felt tight now, pressure building, so he did the one thing that made sense. He opened social media.

    Shane Hollander’s name was everywhere.

    Or

    Shane was hurt in ways everyone could see, and in ways only Ilya would carry.

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    18 Jul 2026